The Bridge
by Uozumi
Summary: An alternate universe in which Sherlock never becomes a consulting detective and John meets Jim before he meet Sherlock. Kink meme fill.


**Fandom** _Sherlock_ (2010)  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s)** Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, Jim Moriarty, John Watson; John/Jim (Johniarty)  
**Genre** Alternate Universe/Drama/Prompt/Slash  
**Rating** PG-13  
**Word Count** 6,784  
**Disclaimer**Sherlock c. Sir Doyle, Gatiss, Moffat, BBC  
**Summary** An alternate universe in which Sherlock never becomes a consulting detective and John meets Jim before he meet Sherlock.  
**Warning(s)** spoilers for series one episode three, contemplation of suicide, poisoning, violence  
**Notes** A friend directed my attention to a post on the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme that requested "Sherlock never became a consulting detective - something distracted him from the Carl Powers case, or he never saw it, or something. But he's in a completely different area of work. John followed exactly the same path as in canon. So did Moriarty." We talked about it and she eventually wrote a fill for the prompt. However, the prompt stuck with me and it became this fic.

_**The Bridge**_

The late winter breeze was cold off the Thames. Clouds drifted across the moon. John gripped the railing of the bridge tightly. His would not move from the water. His service revolver felt noticeably heavy in his pocket. His third and final tour of Afghanistan ended just over a month ago. Without warning, John's right knee spasmed and buckled. John gripped the railing tighter.

Jim observed John from the mouth of the bridge. He knew that body language. Not just that of an ex-soldier, but that of a man contemplating suicide. Jim saw the latter in the mirror often enough; boredom, depression, the end of a long, long rope. He could tell that knee spasm looked psycho-somatic. There had been a momentary hesitation before the spasm as though John's knees did not know which one was injured. Jim could also practically stick his tongue out and taste John's moral compass. But, it seemed a waste to remain silent. Something about John intrigued Jim and he wanted to explore it.

Jim approached silently. He could tell John knew he was there when Jim closed half of the distance between them. Jim finished walking up to John and leaned against the bridge with his back to the water. His voice was quiet and did not carry. "This is a strange place for a military officer."

John looked up then, checking to see if he knew Jim. He had never seen Jim before in his life. "How…?"

Jim's eyes shifted from the sky to John as he turned his head like a snake to look at the older man. "Your tan, your shoes, your watch." It was all so easy. "The psycho-somatic weakness in your knee."

John looked down instinctively at his knees. "It's an injury."

"Your cane is on your left side, but the knee that spasmed was your right knee," Jim said. Then his voice gained a slight singy quality, "You haven't answered my question, Doctor."

John blinked. "You're just guessing." Yet, something told him Moriarty could see all of these things. He felt exposed but intrigued. John stopped leaning on the railing. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I'm just out here thinking. I should probably head back."

Jim fished into his pocket and pulled out a black business card and handed it over. "If you're looking for a job, call me?" He smiled almost shyly,

John took the card. "Alright." He pocketed it and grabbed his cane. "Uh…I'm John Watson." He offered Jim a hand.

"Jim Moriarty," Jim said as he took John's hand and then winked.

John called on Monday. Jim needed a person to be both a body guard and a personal assistant. He hired John after sitting down with him to discuss things properly. The job came with the expected fetching of coffee, business Smartphone, and accompanying Jim almost everywhere important. There were also the unexpected daytime television marathons, shared living arrangement, and Jim's ability to look at a situation or a person and seem to know everything about them after only a few minutes. The last part was beyond fascinating to John. Jim did not rattle off his inferences, but he would mention them sometimes. Jim asked how John's sister was doing before John had a chance to mention her, let alone her divorce. When Jim supplied John with a business laptop, it had the keyboard colour coded by finger as though Jim knew John could only type with his index fingers despite never seeing him with a computer keyboard.

Jim worked in the computer industry. He operated shipping, securing, importing, and safe disposal of many different types of computers. At least, that was the story he told John. In actuality, Jim used the business as a front to ship various illegal items around the world. He also used the shipping network to help hide his own Internet footprint as well.

It was not even a week into working for Jim that the first attack occurred. John and Jim were on their way from an office building to the car so they could travel to one of Jim's many flats around the city. John reacted without hesitation when he heard a familiar noise, shoving Jim into the car as bullets rained down on them from the rooftop. John shut the door behind Jim, hurried into the driver's seat, and sped away. John adjusted course for a longer route and headed towards a different flat in a more secure location. "Were you hit?"

Jim was fumbling with his seat belt. "What?"

"Are you bleeding?" John asked. He couldn't take his eyes off the road. He was trying to speed without speeding.

"N…No," Jim's voice was thin. He ran his hands along his own chest, checking, but he was all right. He checked to see if anyone followed them. There didn't seem to be any signs of pursuit for now.

John ushered Jim out of the car when they reached the flat. He guided Jim up the stairs. Once they were inside, John made a sweep of the flat and nodded to himself. "We're clear."

"No we're not," Jim said in a singy voice. Then his voice got very serious. "You're bleeding from your shoulder." He did not touch John, but he led him into a converted closet. There were medical supplies, a sink, and mirror. "Clean up. I'm going to check on some things."

Two bullets had grazed John's shoulder. As John's adrenaline subsided, he could feel the wounds' sting. Jim's supplies were extensive, prepared for any kind of injury and many types of poison. It was not the first time John had to stitch himself. Once he was cleaned and tended, he went to find Jim.

Jim was hunched over the computer. There were three monitors and there was something different happening on each of them. There was always a room like this in every flat Jim owned. Jim minimized a program on the second monitor and then swivelled in his chair to look at John. "As I thought."

"What?" John walked deeper into the room, his eyes roaming over Jim. It was the fourth time he had checked for injury and he still saw nothing amiss.

"You'll catch on," Jim said. He moved the chair back and forth idly. "You think you're ordinary, and you are." He then swivelled the chair so he faced the monitors again. "But, you'll catch on."

Days after the attempt, when things calmed down, John noticed the absence of his cane. He no longer had tremors in his hands or spasms in his knees. He kept an ear and eye out for threat against Jim both day and night except Saturday and Wednesday nights. Those were his nights off and Jim's nights in. John did not ask what Jim was doing and Jim did not tell. When things seemed to slow too much, something exciting inevitably happened. Jim seemed to have a lot of adversaries. There was always someone threatening Jim or the company. The evidence pointed to eco-terrorists. John found the job rewarding and fulfilling.

The months passed. Working with Jim was an adventure and when there was down time, Jim would include John. When Jim took smaller breaks, it tended to involve watching trashy television and exploring London. Jim needed to scout locations for his criminal empire, but he told John that he liked architecture. It was not a complete lie. Some of the buildings he needed were impressive and artistic. Jim could appreciate them on a business and an artistic level.

John had his job for just over six months when he found Jim lying on the floor of the sitting room in an older flat staring at the ceiling. John had learned not to ask verbally what was happening, just integrate himself into the situation. John laid down, settling his head near Jim's head and stretched his body out, unobstructed, perpendicular to Jim's body.

"Someone's strapping bombs to people," Jim said after they laid there together in silence for a few minutes. His fingers slid along his phone idly as he spoke. "They're being made with some of the company's recycled parts."

John tilted his head so he could look over at Jim. "Those poor people."

"Yeah," Jim said. He began typing something into his phone. He hit send after reading it over. Then he set the phone aside. His hand closest to John slowly moved along the carpet until his finger tips ran along the top of John's hand. He could feel a tiny, tiny shiver from John in response. Jim tried small touches for the past few months now. It was different taking things slow with John, pretending to be a decent person. When the farce began, Jim thought it would be easy, but John was perceptive and Jim could not be lazy.

"Do you need anything?" John asked and cleared his throat. He did not pull his hand away. The time between Jim touching him and John pulling away grew longer and longer every time Jim touched him unprofessionally.

Jim let go of John's hand and rolled over so he was on his stomach and could look at John properly. "No one's died. Whoever it is seems to be taunting the police. I've been in contact with one of the detective inspectors." Jim reached out again and ran the pads of his fingers along John's hand this time. He let his fingers follow the curve of John's hand boldly, sliding across John's thumb and along his palm. "The question is…do you need anything?"

"Me?" John asked. His thumb instinctively ran along Jim's fingers briefly. Then he seemed to realize what he was doing and pulled his hand away. "No, but if I can help, you just have to ask."

Jim grinned just a little. "Ask? For anything?" He let his phone lay undisturbed on the floor.

John's eyebrows furrowed. "Well…not…'anything.'" He remained where he was. He watched Jim with curiosity.

Before Jim could say anything more, his phone rang. He checked the caller ID, frowned deeply, and then he reached out and touched John's nose once. "Important meeting," he said and his voice moved into a singy quality, "I'll see you later." Jim got up and did not answer his phone until he was in his study with the door shut.

John watched him go. He figured it was a meeting with some people from Sony. Jim always looked aggravated when the person Jim claimed was Sony's representative called him. John took a deep breath and sat up before rubbing his face. He let his boss flirt with him. John knew it was hard to remember their professional distance since they lived together, but that was the nature of the job. John wanted to remain professional. It was becoming harder. It made John question everything he believed about himself.

Out of all the bombs over a six month period, only one detonated. It killed an old woman and part of a tenant building. John and Jim sat out on a bench near St. Bart's late at night a few hours after the bomb's detonation. Jim claimed to be feeling claustrophobic in their current flat and they wandered for hours before finally sitting. The night was mild for early spring.

"The bomber wants to meet with me," Jim said slowly. "He wants to discuss terms."

John sat up straighter. "You've - You've been talking to this lunatic?"

"Of course. He's using my trash," Jim said. It really did sound convincing. Jim was proud of his ability to believe whatever lie he told John as he told it. "I have a mind to meet him."

"Then I'm coming with you," John decided.

"I'm meeting him on a Saturday. I don't need you there," Jim said. "It's your night off."

John reached out to touch Jim's arm because he knew it'd make Jim look at him. Once he could see Jim's eyes, he said, "Then let me come as a friend."

Jim held John's gaze and then shook his head. "No. No. Friends don't do that to people."

"I can't let you go in there alone," John said. "He's attaching bombs to people. I know you say the police are incompetent and from what I've seen on the television, you're right, but maybe this is where we get them involved if I'm not involved."

"Making threats already?" Jim teased. "Why is it so important to you, John? Maybe it's because," and his voice again got slightly singy, a sign John had come to know as nerves, "you like me?"

John grew quiet. It was part of the game between them. He did not break eye contact with Jim. Jim was counting down mentally to John's typical assertion of John's straightness. This time, however, John nodded. "Yes. Yes, I do like you. I just…This is new for me and I don't want you to go meet some lunatic with a bomb that has your name on it alone."

Jim smirked almost triumphantly. He lowered his voice to almost a whisper. "I told you you'd catch on." He leaned over and kissed John's cheek, lips lingering for a moment before pulling back. Then Jim stood. "I'll bring you with me if you're around," he said. Then he offered John a hand. "Warm drinks, good company?"

John took Jim's hand and stood up, keeping hold of the hand as they headed back the way they came. John had known Jim for over a year now. John could feel things inside of himself he did not completely understand but he wanted to explore with Jim slowly.

John had not heard a noise like this since Kandahar. It was quiet and had he not heard it before, he would have gone back to sleep. John reached under his pillow for his gun and pulled it slowly. He opened an eye and assessed the room. Sure enough, someone lurked in the corner, ready to pounce.

"Now, Dr. Watson," a voice said from the hallway, "I don't think it would be wise to shoot any of us."

John remained quiet, still. He hadn't fully removed his hand from under his pillow yet.

"Let go of your gun and cooperate with us," the voice continued. "It's your best course of action. I, personally, think you're innocent. Please don't ruin my assessment of your character."

John remained as he was for now. "Who are you exactly?"

"We're MI-6. We need you to answer some questions," the voice said. "Please put your hands where we can see them and allow Agent Davenport to assist you in dressing so we can be certain you don't bring any surprises. If you cooperate, this should be over in two or three days' time."

John eyed Agent Davenport. He sat up slowly, leaving his gun behind his pillow. If they wanted to kill him, they would have already. "And Jim?"

"Your associate is already being questioned," the voice answered. "We picked him up outside the residence. Your skills are quite intact."

John got out of bed and pulled on the first set of clean clothes available. Agent Davenport escorted him to a waiting vehicle and they left swiftly. John did not see the man who had been talking from the hallway until a day later.

The interrogation room was very bare except a desk with three chairs. Various agents had come to question John not only about the bombings, but about Jim and the nature of John's position at Jim's "company." John had not left the room since he arrived and was given water and toast with butter for meals infrequently.

The door opened. A tall man with auburn hair entered. He had to be in his forties, closer to fifty. He surveyed John. He smiled a bit. "Your posture gives your title away, Captain," he said. "I did look at your file, however." It was the man from the hallway.

"I've told you everything that I know," John said. He was exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and confused. He remained loyal to Jim. John could not fathom Jim doing all of these things. Jim was so gentle. The only times John had seen Jim get angry was at the incompetence of others. He never saw Jim become violent, though he had seen Jim be ruthless, but only in terms of business.

"Yes, you've told us everything Jim has told you," Mycroft said. He sat down across from John. "And I'm inclined to believe that you don't understand the extent or nature of his reach." Mycroft paused. He was assessing John.

"If you're looking for some crack or flaw in my story, you're not going to find it staring at me," John said. "For that matter, you won't find it by not staring at me either. There are none. I have no reason to lie."

"Of course." Mycroft leaned back in his chair. "I want you to tell me about him."

John's eyes narrowed. He remained silent.

"I'm not asking for you to incriminate him, just narrate an average day between you two," Mycroft said. "I already know you're considering sleeping with him. I don't judge you."

John remained quiet, his brain turning things over. It seemed like a trick or a trap.

"Tell me about your work day, John. You can leave out whatever you want," Mycroft said. "You've cooperated as much as can be expected to this point. Don't stop now."

John held Mycroft's gaze. He would not trust this man as far as he could throw him. However, John had to work to prove Jim was innocent. Perhaps shedding insight into an average day would help Jim's case. He took a deep breath and began with a very horribly average Tuesday.

John woke up at five. After getting ready for work, he would make breakfast and Jim would appear some time around six. They took breakfast together. John would do the dishes and Jim would remain at the breakfast table doing his work from the phone or laptop. Then Jim would disappear into his study and work at his monitors.

If they weren't under threat, John would do the shopping and pick up anything Jim needed. Lunch started somewhere between twelve and one-fifteen. After that, Jim would conduct business while watching daytime television or go to a meeting at the office. Most of the work was done remotely, however. There was a snack between four and five and dinner somewhere between seven and nine-thirty depending on the day. If John and Jim went out and about on a weeknight, it was usually after supper when things were dark. John would turn in to bed some time between ten and eleven unless he was still out with Jim.

Mycroft let a long silence pass between them. He let John process everything John said and that which John did not say. He watched John's face. It was a good soldier's face. It gave away very, very little. Yet, Mycroft could see the crack starting to form. He could see John working through some conversation, some action. John was very intelligent. John was going to realize the truth or at least as much of it as was palatable. Mycroft rose. "I'll let you think on things. I will return in a few hours time." He then excused himself.

When Mycroft returned, another agent brought water. John did not react to the bottle on the table immediately. His eyes fixed on Mycroft. To an unobservant person, John would look no different from their first formal meeting. However, Mycroft could see John thought long and hard while Mycroft was absent. It looked like it was productive thinking.

"I can't believe Jim did that," John said. "I can't. When that complex blew, he was genuinely upset." John took a breath, "But, the other things…" his voice trailed, "the other questions I've had thrown at me…." John frowned. He was a loyal person and it was hard for that loyalty to completely erode so easily or quickly.

"You know he has it within himself to kill," Mycroft said. "You know basic interrogation. You know our situation from our questions. And," he let his eyes continue to search John's face, "you know if he wished to do such things, no one could stop him."

John looked away then. He took a long, deep breath.

"I want to put you into protective custody," Mycroft said.

John looked back to Mycroft. "No. I can take care of myself."

"Can you?" Mycroft set a folder down on the table beside the water. "When your limp returns and your hands can't quite hold the gun you're contemplating using, will you feel like you can take care of yourself?" He touched the folder once and then moved away. "You have an hour to sort through that. When you are done, agents will take you to the safe house." He paused at the door. "The person you're staying with enjoys puzzles and the unknown. Perhaps he'll shed light onto your situation.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Watson."

John drank the water first. He eventually thumbed through the folder. Shaky evidence tried to tie Jim to the things MI-6 claimed he did. However, it was circumstantial at best. In the folder there was also information on the man John would stay with at the safe house. Sherlock Holmes, thirty-five, bachelor, head of a research laboratory at St. Bart's. Sherlock had a talent for violin, was able to detect a poison in under a minute in ideal circumstances, and, as the text seemed to imply, had some anti-social tendencies.

John studied the picture of Sherlock. There was something about the man's eyebrows and presence that seemed vaguely familiar, but in what way, John could not place. When the agents returned, John allowed them to escort him to Baker Street. He supposed if anything, he could find the truth and use it to help Jim out of the situation, if it helped Jim out of the situation. John was not sure what to think if any of these accusations were true. If any of them were true, John helped, and possibly fallen for, a criminal mastermind. It sat awkwardly on his soul either way.

A pleasant woman in her seventies met John and the agents at the door. Her smile was genuine and her demeanour put John at ease.

"You're here for Sherlock aren't you?" she asked. "He said this would happen." She led the way up the stairs. "I'm Mrs. Hudson. This is my property. It will be nice having another person around."

"It's very nice," John said as he followed. The agents remained silent. "I'm John."

Mrs. Hudson entered the flat at the top of the stairs without knocking. "Sherlock? They've arrived."

Sherlock appeared from a room. He wore a lab coat, which at one point must have been white but now had stains of various debris and burn marks in various places. Sherlock moved his eye protection up to the crown of his head so he could look at everyone in the room properly. He was not wearing gloves and the tips of his fingers seemed permanently stained in places. "I have him now, you can go."

"We need to brief you," an agent said.

"I've been briefed. Give Mycroft my regards." Sherlock looked at the agents as though their mere existence bored him to tears.

John watched the agents leave. Mrs. Hudson, when it appeared nobody needed anything, headed back downstairs.

"Here," Sherlock said and handed John an extra pair of eye protection. "I've been using the bedroom up the stairs as my room and the second bedroom on this level as my laboratory." He led them into the lab, which was four different tables, several different chemistry sets, and a bit of gardening on the side. It smelled questionable at best. "There's a study I've converted into a bedroom for your use."

"So, this is what you do? They told me you were a researcher," John said. He put on the eye protection.

"That's what Mycroft likes to call it," Sherlock said. He returned to a table on the far right. He turned the Bunsen burner on.

"He also said you like puzzles," John said. He kept out of the way as best as he could.

"You're starting to question your belief in a man you've been working for and you want me to validate them," Sherlock said. "I can't validate anything but the truth, and many people in your position don't want the truth." Sherlock moved around the table so he could watch his experiment and John simultaneously. "You should start thinking with your brain and not with your affection. Romance complicates the truth."

"Did they honestly put that conjecture in my file?" John asked. "I'm not trying to sleep with him."

"You're ex-military judging from your stance and your lack of facial expression. You're not sure who I am or who I answer to, so you're masking your emotional responses, except you can't mask your eyes. You're working as a body guard and personal assistant to a man charged with a criminal empire. That watch was a…" Sherlock's eyes moved along the curve of the band, "birthday gift," Sherlock's eyes returned to his experiment, "and those shoes are the second pair he's given you. Both pairs were a present you found in the closet one morning. You assume it's because he thought your original boots were embarrassing, which they probably were."

John's eyes narrowed. He did not respond, but he was listening.

"You have dandruff, chronic. You try to cover it up by using hair styling gel and a heavy-duty dandruff shampoo. Except it's been two and a half days since you were taken for questioning and the dandruff is now out of control. Some diluted vinegar applied with every hair wash should help clear that up. The vinegar is in the cupboard under the sink." Sherlock's solution began to bubble. It smelled like cough drops. "You would have stopped using the gel except you receive compliments when your hair is styled and you get the most compliments from Moriarty if you keep it short and well kept."

John brushed the dandruff from his jacket self-consciously. It was not as bad as it could be at times. "This can't all be in that file."

"It's not," Sherlock said. "Your file states that you are Dr. John Watson, ex-army captain and surgeon. You've just turned forty years old and you have exemplary marksmanship. You've had misdiagnosed PTSD and have suicidal tendencies but you would never follow through with them. It also said you were once married to a Mary Morstan, who died during your first tour of duty from eclampsia. The rest I could see just by looking at you."

John eyed Sherlock. "I've only known one other person who could read people like that and he's at the centre of a criminal investigation. How do I know you're not pretending after reading his file?"

Sherlock checked on the solution. Satisfied, he made a few mental notes and turned off the burner. His eyes shifted to John. "We'll start with the obvious. You're having trouble regulating your body temperature due to fasting for the past sixty-six hours, which is why you're still wearing your jacket indoors. You turned your collar up against the breeze and then kept it up, so you're either trying to intimidate or you're trying to impress. The reports are correct that your PTSD was misdiagnosed because put under the stress of interrogation, food rations, and assessing how trustworthy I am given how I remind you of one of the interrogators, you have stood on a hardwood floor without incident for the entire time you've been here with me. You're on alert, you're under physical stress. You want to clear Moriarty's name but you worry what MI-6 told you might be true. You keep watching my hands, because you know it will tell you exactly what I do and how I do it. It might also tell you if you can trust me to help." Sherlock paused to let it sink in and then continued, "If your injuries weren't psychosomatic, you would need a chair to sit on by now."

"So will you help me?" John asked. "Even if it means we figure out he's behind all of it?" He did not look away from Sherlock.

Sherlock removed his eye protection. "If we do figure out he's behind all of this, what will you do?"

John removed his own eye protection, glad that he could now. "I don't know. What will you do if we figure out he's not?"

"My work is about truth," Sherlock said. "Whatever truth we find, I will accept if it's the truth."

John rubbed his face where the elastic pinched his skin. "Me too. It'll be hard maybe, but whatever we can figure out." He did not think he had any other choice. The truth would be the truth.

Sherlock nodded. "There should be food in the pantry. Take a shower and make whatever you want. I don't require food at this time." Sherlock's mind was already going through what he knew of the case so far. He would have to start digging out things to look through and figure out how they could get their hands on more information. It would be a welcomed diversion.

***

Sherlock and John poured over what they could find. Newspaper articles, Internet records, anything they could amass. A wardrobe became a walk in evidence room. Pictures, cut-outs, everything they found were tacked onto the inside of the wardrobe. Sherlock took to connecting pieces of evidence together with string so they could follow connecting points visually.

While Sherlock was away at the research facility, John continued to amass what he evidence could find. Sherlock was teaching him how to hack into networks. Sherlock said he learned when he was a child using his first computer. It was 1988 at the time and there was nothing else to busy himself with during holidays from school. Sherlock said that once he got the computer, he did not read a newspaper for at least three years until he grew bored of hacking and tried improving upon the aging computer to make it more efficient and useful.

Days turned into weeks. John found himself duplicating some of his duties from living with Moriarty. John would cook, clean, and get groceries and other supplies. He could feel eyes on him constantly, especially if Sherlock was away. Yet, it was nice to be able to have freedom of movement even if nothing was private.

"We've been looking at this wrong," Sherlock said one day. "This is entirely wrong." He began to undo all of the strings while trying not to pull tacks out of the walls and dislodge the evidence.

"What do you mean?" John asked. The two of them could barely fit into the wardrobe together. The wardrobe made noises of protest the faster Sherlock moved.

"There is one thing that connects all of this," Sherlock said. He began to rattle off the reasoning. He connected various articles to various locations, explaining in rushed tones as he retied the strings. Then Sherlock moved so John could see all the buildings involved. He grew quiet, waited. Sherlock had not connected the buildings to the one thing he claimed existed at the centre of the web yet.

"Wow," John said. Sherlock was a lot like Jim, except more apt to show off especially with positive encouragement. John traced several strings, but could not find fault with Sherlock's reasoning. "Brilliant. You're really good at this. I'm surprised you're not in the police force."

"The police are inefficient and I wouldn't be able to work on my own terms," Sherlock said. He seemed pleased with John's assessment and his ability to illicit positive responses from John even now. Sherlock told him once that John was one of the few, if only person, who appreciated that ability.

John really looked at the buildings Sherlock connected. He checked a few more strings and then he shook his head once. No. No. That wasn't possible, but he could not find any faults with Sherlock's assessment, even the bits John wouldn't have picked up on his own. It was all there and it was all obvious. John knew the one person who all these buildings connected back to. He knew who Sherlock meant when Sherlock said one thing connected everything together.

"Jim likes to look at architecture," he told Sherlock. "We're always looking at these buildings frequently. He's even done some business in these two here." John pointed the buildings out. "But that doesn't mean…" Even as the words started from his mouth, John knew the sentence was wrong. It meant exactly what it looked like. John felt numb and cold. He tried to rationalize the conclusion away, but he could not.

"No, but we need to know why he's looking at them," Sherlock said. "And we have to remember that it could mean he's involved. Remember, we have to look objectively at the evidence. If you can't do that, you won't find the truth."

John sighed. "I need a break." He stepped out of the wardrobe. Everything felt ominous.

It was late. John knew he was being watched, but he wandered the streets anyway. He could not sleep. His feet brought him to the bridge where he met Jim almost two years ago. John rested his arms on the railing and looked up at the sky and out at the water. He still lived with Sherlock and the evidence against Jim was mounting, yet there was nothing that could directly tie Jim to anything. It just was coming down to the common denominator and without uncovering any other person, it was Jim.

Someone approached silently. John knew it was Jim before Jim stopped beside him on the bridge. John looked over at him, his eyes searching Jim's face. He tried to see past the person knew for his time of employment. He tried to find the true Jim Moriarty that lurked beneath that.

"You have a bug on you," Jim said. He did not know where exactly, but he knew there were people actively listening in on this conversation.

"People follow me everywhere anyway," John said. "I'm not surprised." He made a face. He did not like being under surveillance either. It felt dirty. "I thought they had you locked away somewhere."

Jim moved to face the water. He stood very close to John. It felt natural to be this close, even if the evidence. "They did, but they couldn't hold me." Jim grew quiet for a long time. Then he spoke in a very quiet voice, allowing his natural Irish accent to thicken as he mumbled, "I can't stay."

John tried to remind himself that Jim might be a criminal mastermind, that Jim might be behind the bombings or even the bomber. John frowned. His loyalty was thoroughly tested and yet a small part of him wanted to believe Jim was innocent. So much of him, however, knew otherwise. "Look me in the eye and tell me you didn't have anything to do with those bombs." John kept watching Jim's face. "Tell me you didn't have anything to do with any of this." John would believe him. John liked to think he would be able to detect a lie.

Jim took a deep breath. "Really?" He looked at John then. "Is that all it will take?"

"If it's true, I will believe you," John said. "I'm still on your side. I still think you're innocent. The evidence is circumstantial."

Jim's eyes searched John's. He reached out and touched John's face with his hand and ran his fingers along the curve of John's cheek. John instinctively moved into the touch. His hand moved to curl around Jim's hand, but Jim pulled away before John could do so. "John…so loyal…so honest," he hissed out the last word in a sense of awe. Then Jim leaned forward and kissed John. The kiss was intense but gentle. John closed his eyes and kissed back. Jim's tongue tickled at John's lips and then darted away before Jim pulled back. "You see so much but you don't see anything," he finished and his timbre moved upward, nervous.

John's eyebrows furrowed. His cheek tingled where Jim touched it earlier. Jim took both of John's hands and squeezed them tightly. "Goodbye, John." Jim dropped the hands slowly and then began to walk away.

John licked his lips. They now tingled as well. He wanted to go after Jim but his legs felt awkward, numb. He tried to call out to Jim, but his tongue felt a size too big and all he could manage was to open his mouth and close it again. John's eyes and limbs grew heavy. The world spun.

John did not remember closing his eyes but when they opened, he was staring up at the night sky. He gasped for breath and shivered as though his brain had a need to shiver from cold and the body responded accordingly.

"Drink this," a firm but quiet voice instructed and held a water bottle to John's lips.

John swallowed the water as best he could. He coughed and tried to sit up. Sherlock, on his knees beside John, kept a steady hand on John's shoulder to keep him from sitting up just yet. "Wha…?" John managed but he knew.

"Poison," Sherlock said. "Moriarty must be immune or partially immune already."

John felt numb all over again, but it was not from the poison this time. "But…"

"Shhh," Sherlock said. "Keep drinking. I gave you the antidote."

John's hands and cheek felt raw. He could taste very faint chemicals in his mouth and on his lips. He wasn't sure if the chemicals were there to help or hurt. He coughed again, grabbed the water bottle, and this time Sherlock let him sit. John drank the entire bottle and took deep breaths. He shivered when the breeze picked up, the sweat covering his body making it colder.

Sherlock stood up. "We have to leave. Can you walk?"

John did not know. He got to his feet and swayed. Sherlock helped him to the curb where they caught a cab back to Baker Street.

John slept off the dizziness. When John began to feel less heavy and less dizzy, reality sunk in. He pulled the covers over his head and lay quietly.

Psychopaths did not love. John knew this, but If Jim was a psychopath, Jim was unlike other psychopaths John encountered in his career. He knew that sometimes they could become obsessed with someone they considered superior to themselves, but that was not how Jim interacted with him. Then again, the poison could have been to ensure John would not talk or to ensure that John remained only Jim's and no one else's.

John could smell a metallic, burnt odour. It was faint but mildly alarming. The odour became more pungent. John rolled over and lifted off the covers. John threw on a shirt and a dressing gown before shuffling off to check on the laboratory.

Sherlock heaved open a window in the living room. He moved to the next window when John immerged. There was faint, blue-tinted smoke wafting from the laboratory. Sherlock paused when he saw John. "The fire is out now," he said. "You can go back to bed."

"I've been in bed too long already," John said. He helped finish opening all the windows in the room. "Do you need any help?"

Sherlock assessed him. "It just needs to air out." He patted down his sleeve that smoked on its own. "What are your plans when you're out of protective custody?"

John peeked into the laboratory to ascertain if it really was all right now. All he saw was the smoke dissipating. There were no active fires. "I don't know. Isn't that up to MI-6 still?"

"You're no longer a bargaining chip," Sherlock said, "but you do need a flat and," he observed John as he spoke, "I need a roommate."

John looked away from the laboratory and at Sherlock. "You want to keep rooming with someone who could be the second in command of a criminal empire," John said.

"But you're not," Sherlock said. It was also fun to work with John. Sherlock had not had so much fun with data and information than when he tried to help John get to the truth of Jim's crimes. It was more exciting than some of his science experiments.

John shifted his weight. "I'll think about it." It was as good as a yes.

**The End**


End file.
